To the Time of Rush Hour Traffic
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: He watches her fingers as they tap on the lower half of the steering wheel, in time with the music. And after a moment, when he hears her singing under her breath, he joins in, too.


**A/N: Random, off the top of my head fic. I own nothing. **

* * *

She turns on the radio, one day, while they're stuck in traffic.

It isn't something that she's ever done before, and it is for this reason that he takes notice of it, and her, and the way her fingers tap on the steering wheel in time with the music.

He wonders for a moment why it didn't occur to him that turning on the radio was something that she might do if there wasn't any chance of moving forward anytime soon. And at the same time, he continues to watch her, because for some reason, this fascinates him. It probably shouldn't, considering that listening to the radio is something most people do when they drive (he doesn't, but only because it distracts him too much), but it does, simply because it's _her._

After a while, it occurs to him that he should probably wonder why this is, but he doesn't.

* * *

Rush hour traffic is a pain.

"I can't believe this," she says, more to herself, than to him, though he continues to watch her fingers dancing along the bottom half of the steering wheel. "It's not even five o'clock yet."

He looks at the clock on the dashboard. Sure enough, it isn't, but it _is_ exactly 4:55.

"It's Manhattan," he says, as if this is supposed to explain everything, and she gives him an amused look.

"Point taken," she replies, and glances out through the windshield again, shaking her head. "It's still ridiculous."

It is, but he doesn't say anything to this, and she doesn't continue, so they go on listening to the radio.

* * *

The song is one that neither of them knows, but it has a good enough beat and so it keeps their interest.

"You know, there are worse things that we could be going through right now," he remarks, and she turns her head towards him.

"Name one," she says, and then, "Besides getting stuck in the squad room doing paperwork."

"I think you've learned how to read my mind, Eames."

"That's just a little bit on the weird side."

And he laughs at this, at her, because it is, and he knows it, but knows that she won't read into it any more than she should, and even if she does, it'll probably be to find something else to amuse them.

* * *

"I hate this song," she says, when a new one starts to play after another minute or two, and proceeds to change the station.

"What would you do if I told you that I liked that song?" he asks, and she turns, to smirk at him.

"Change it anyway," she says. "Odds that you'd actually do something about it?"

Just to prove whatever theories she has wrong, and partly to make her laugh, he reaches out and changes the station back.

She swats at his hand, but misses, amused.

"Ought to kick you out of this car for that."

"It's an SUV."

"Let's not go there."

* * *

He changes the station back to the one she'd changed it to in the first place, earning himself another smirk.

"That's what I thought."

"It occurs to me that if you drive, I should at least have a say in what we listen to."

She looks at him with raised eyebrows, a faint laugh escaping her as she shakes her head at him.

"When you drive, then you can have a say," she tells him, half-seriously, and he reaches out to change the station again, finger hovering just over the button.

She doesn't notice, at first. When she does, she rolls her eyes.

"Go on, then, change it," she says. "You know you want to."

So he does, and for a moment, there is the sound of classical music.

* * *

"You're kidding me, right?" she asks, after another moment. "Of all the things in the world we could be listening to, you want to listen to this?"

"Sometimes the music doesn't need words to make sense," he replies, amused by the expression on her face. "Besides, this could help you relax."

She bites back a laugh. "Doubt it, Bobby. I hate listening to classical music. It doesn't interest me in the slightest."

They've moved forward, slightly. He looks at her and knows that she's tempted to turn on the lights and siren just so they can actually get somewhere, but she doesn't.

"Why not?" he asks, because some part of him really does want to know. She sighs.

"I don't know," she admits. "It just never appealed to me. I like knowing the thought behind the song, I guess."

* * *

It's not too far off from knowing the thought behind the crime, he thinks, but doesn't say this out loud, still watching her fingers on the steering wheel.

"You keep good time," he comments, and she laughs.

"Friends on the marching band," she says. "Used to hang out and watch them practice when I had nothing better to do."

He smirks. "The prom queen had nothing better to do than watch the marching band practice."

She gives him a mock-hurt look. "Maybe I was dating one of the guys," she says, and then smirks back at him. "The thought didn't cross your mind, did it?"

"No," he admits. "It didn't."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't the sort to go for the popular guy just because he was there."

* * *

The meaning behind this is not at all lost on him.

And as they manage to actually get through this light and a few more before another red light finally stops them, his eyes focus on her fingers, still tapping on the steering wheel.

He reaches out, then, and changes the station. Some song that's a cross between pop and alternative comes on and she glances over at him.

"You just saved my life, you know that, right?" she asks, not really serious, as is made evident by the faint smile on her face.

"Good to know," he says, and thinks of all the times she has saved his life, _really_ saved his life without even knowing it.

It isn't something he dwells on often, but every now and then, he thinks on it, and thinks of her.

On those nights, he is able to fall asleep.

* * *

Traffic doesn't look like it's going to ease up anytime soon.

Technically speaking, their day is supposed to end at a set time, depending on when they actually came on duty in the first place.

It often stretches longer than it is supposed to, either because neither of them can make themselves leave, or because they're not finished looking at all the angles of a particular theory.

This time, it will be because they did not get to where they needed to get and will instead have to try again tomorrow if traffic doesn't get better.

She changes the station when the song currently playing comes to an end, and he sits back, noticing that her fingers are no longer moving across the steering wheel.

"Tired?" he asks, and she glances at him, before nodding briefly.

"Somewhat," she admits, and reaches for the thermos of coffee sitting between his knees. "Thanks."

* * *

He wants to laugh at this, because the thermos wasn't even for him in the first place. He had a cup of coffee before they left the squad room, but she didn't, so he watches her sip from it now, before she twists the lid back on and puts it back where it was.

"I think you know me too well," she says, and he notices that her fingers have started tapping again.

This time, he can hear the faint sound of her singing under her breath, every now and then, because she knows the song, but doesn't know all of the words…only enough to make him think that she does.

And so he joins in, then, earning a startled look from her, before it disappears, replaced by an amused one.

They continue on this way until they reach their destination, and even then, until they're directly in front of the person they came to talk to.


End file.
